Goodbye, my lover
by Simplysheree
Summary: KatnissXDarius I know it's unusual, but I love Darius and I was heartbroken when I found out how he died, so I took some artistic license with the night before the games. A little bit lemony, but mostly sweet.


I lay on the sinfully soft bed, heart thundering, head pounding. Darius! They had made Darius an avox and it was my fault. The pain that racked my body was intense beyond belief: the sound of his voice floated back to me, the feeling of heat when he flirted with me. He was the first man to really take notice of me, even when it was in joking, the first man to make me aware that I was a woman, the first an only to evoke genuinely uncomplicated feelings in me. I found him attractive and I liked him and there was no confusion…

And it was my fault.

The soft footsteps near my bed roused me from the abyss, a cup of tea was steaming on my bedside with a note:

_Sorry you're feeling down! Get some sleep, we've a big, big day tomorrow!_

_E x_

The anger I felt towards the capitol, towards well meaning Effie, towards Gale for not being chosen, towards Peeta for volunteering, for being so cold, it all rose up and I stood, throwing the cup at the wall. The scream was gutteral, it came from the darkness that I pushed further down into me every day. I slumped to the floor, sobbing helplessly,

"Damn it!" I bent forward in, forehead on the floor, "Damn it."

Strong hands guided me upwards, leading me back to bed wordlessly, stroking my hair away from my face. The comfort was nice, but unfamiliar; it was not Gale, obviously, nor Peeta: the hands were too rough, interestingly textured. When I opened my eyes, the shock nearly finished me.

"Darius?" He stared at me, mute. A weak, wan smile, another stroke of the hair before he offered a shrug that said everything and, heartbreakingly, nothing. Standing, he turned, picking up the fragments of the cup,

"No…I can…" Effie's words rang in my ears: he would probably be punished already, because of his compassion, I would not make it worse for him. He, at least, might survive, if not live.

But I was too selfish to watch him leave, I needed the comfort, the warmth and now that I'd had a taste of what I'd been missing since Peeta and I fell out, I craved more. Under all that was the remaining attraction, the liking, the comfort of familiarity: he was as he had always been to me, except that now, he had no voice to tease me, make me feel my own presence. He was as helpless as I was and I wanted him near.

"Darius, wait!" He stopped, turning to look at me, a weary sadness in his eyes, as if he knew everything I could say to him, as if it all meant something, but was worth nothing. The surprise in his eyes was tangible as I extended my arms to him. How I looked to him was impossible to know, but the sight of me sitting on the bed, reaching for him, tears on my face seemed to knock the wind from him for a second, "Please…" I wasn't sure what I was asking for, he didn't look so sure either for a second. But he crossed the distance, standing in front of me, body language tense and wary. I wrapped my arms around his neck, clinging to him like a vine to a tree, burying my face in his neck. He smelled of food and heat and sweat, a heart wrenchingly familiar smell and, vaguely, I wondered if he had always smelled this way. Pressing my nose to the crook of his neck, I drew in a deep breath. The effect was instant: his arms lifted and he made a strange, wordless sound, wrapping his arms tight around me, face pressed into my hair, shaking like a leaf in the wind. We pulled apart for a moment, looking at each other, I as mute and helpless as he. Then the strangest thing happened: I felt a stirring, a flutter of genuine, unconditional emotion,

"I don't have any squirrels to trade, but I think I might take that kiss, if the offers still open?" I smiled weakly, giggling, trying desperately to regain that feeling, that care-free ease that hung between us that day. He did not react as expected, he did not smile, or even get upset: his brows raised for a moment, a mere millisecond before his lips were on mine.

The world did not fade away, it was not effortless or sweet. It was hungry and desperate and sad and needy and…romantic, all at once. I clasped his head, hands grasping his beautiful red hair, as we struggled with each other, trying to say what we needed to with our bodies, trying to rewind and fast forward time with our need. Without conference, we slumped back onto the bed, his hands on my hips now, he made small, helpless, animal sounds that made me want to die of rage and despair for him. His hands slipped up, around my back, up into my hair, down my neck…

When they reached my breasts, I froze for a moment, thoughts whirring as I slid out from under him, hearing his panicked, disappointed sounds before I locked the door. Silence. I turned to him, seeing his disbelief… his happiness. Darius crossed the room before I could speak, understanding instantly in his charmingly male way that this was not a guarantee, simply an opportunity. We stumbled around the room in a drunken dance, holding onto each other as our lives depended on it, as if this was our last day in the world, which for me it might well be. When we staggered towards the bed, we missed, hitting the wall, not phasing him in the least: he simply lifted me, so I was clinging him. He spun slightly, the moment becoming sickly sweet, fairytale romance. Apart from sleeping beauty being a serial murderer and prince charming being a mute, mutilated traitor to the state. We slowly waltzed to the bed, never breaking contact, never faltering, my hands always on his face, in his hair, touching his shoulders. As we descended, I felt small, feminine even and, whether or not he did it intentionally, the pain was minimal. In a few minutes I was completely changed, my status moved: he had made me realise I was a woman, occasionally made me feel it when he flirted and now, he was making it true. We gasped together, me whimpering half formed sentences, him making wordless sounds that were far more coherent in their meaning. It was simple, hungry, uncomplicated….it was over. We lay for a few moments, staring in disbelief at each others partially clothed bodies, his hand still resting between my legs, fingers making small circles, making me tremble. Then it was as if something broke in him: he began to cry, hand over his mouth, looking at me with wide, mortified eyes. I didn't know how to react, how to feel: had I done something wrong, had I done something terrible and made him feel worse? I opened my arms to him again, hoping it was the right thing to do, which it seemed to be, because he laid his head on my chest and sobbed like a child, broad shoulders shaking, choking slightly. We lay there for what felt an eternity before a rapping at the door made him freeze, cowering like a whipped dog, the rage came seeping back and I clutched him to my chest tighter, eye narrow,

"What?"

"I heard something smash, are you ok?" Peeta's voice was concerned, but irritated, the door rattled, "Why is the door locked, Katniss?"

"Go away." I yelled, knowing I would pay for it later, Darius tried to sit up, I tugged at him, noting that he gave in immediately: was it trained obedience, or reluctance to leave my side, my protective nature?

"Fine!" he snarled, "Fine!"

"Fine!" I spat back, holding Darius to me as if it was Peeta that threatened him, as if I would ward off all the pain. His footsteps receded and Darius once again tried to get up,

"You can stay for a little, if you want…?" I sounded weak, "It's not like I have anywhere to be…" He looked at me with sad eyes, suddenly looking older than he ever had as he crawled to me, placing his head in my lap, "I wont let anyone hurt you while I'm here." A small, grateful sound, no in the least sarcastic, even though we both knew that I would not be here long, "I'll try to help you, get you home." He sat up, kissing me softly, letting me know that there was nothing I could do, other than hold him. So I did.

When he did stand to leave, I didn't try to stop him: he knew best what to do to avoid anymore pain. He stopped next to a small table, noting a stack of small, square bits of paper and a pen, stooping, he scribbled something, folding it and offering me a small smile before slipping out. Pulling the sheets about me, I went to it, lifting it, eyes screwing up to make out the barely legible hand writing:

_You owe me more than one squirrel, Ms Everdeen._ I laughed, it was a brittle, shakey sound, then, at the bottom of the small sheet, as if in after thought. Or confession.

_Thank you for making me matter again._


End file.
